


turn on the light and hope for the best

by leadbitter



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: English National Team, FIFA World Cup 2018, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-08-01 02:40:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16276277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leadbitter/pseuds/leadbitter
Summary: three lions. three lions. three lions. three li-like the beating of an unhelpful heart. a constant, but not steady.





	turn on the light and hope for the best

**Author's Note:**

> i miss the world cup and i love jordy p so have some england xx

The shock of being named as England number one is overtaken by the pure joy of it. It’s England, and Jordan was sure Jack would be ahead of him. It almost feels too real, too vivid, these visions of lifting trophies and saving penalties in clear detail, and for a moment, Jordan allows himself to believe.

 

 

_Football is -_

_Saving a penalty is -_

_Winning is -_

Those unfinishable sentences, like trying to explain how the world was built. How can he explain the feeling when he pushed the ball away from the goal, when the net didn’t ripple behind him? Bacca walking away, head down, knowing it was almost over, and a line of figures in red too far away, jumping up and down, knowing it was almost over.

And then, well, you know the rest.

Up steps Eric Dier, all 6 ft 2 of him (Jordan already panicking, _where the fuck is Vards jesus christ_ ) but it’s fine. On the verge on history, and that motive clearly seems to be just enough for Eric to slot the penalty away, despite a hand from Ospina.

He should’ve done better there, says the goalkeeper.

 _Let’s fuckin ‘ave it!_ says the Englishman.

 

 

The celebrations are fucking mental because they just would be, wouldn’t they? They’re all English afterall and getting hammered is a national hobby, no matter how stupid it may be.

(Jordan sees the videos on twitter, from back home that is, the day after. The emotion catches in his throat. It’s mad what effect strangers drunkenly singing in the street have on him, but he didn’t expect it, see? Stupid really because, other than boozing, football is England's obsession. It’s not shocking that the two mix so easily.)

“Jorrrrd…. _Jordyyy_ ,” It's a pissed-to-fuck John Stones wrapping an arm round his neck, shouting because the music is too loud. They’re still playing Three Lions; you’d think that the sound of the song would get repetitive but in that night, it could’ve been played ten million times over and they’d still sing with all the same vigour as before.

“You’re a fuckin’ legend, ya know mate,” Stonesy slurred with a beaming grin and Jordan couldn’t help but smile back, already halfway gone himself.

“Yeah mate, I fuckin’ know!” He exclaims, not bragging but like he is just stating a fact.

And then the song changes to Atomic Kitten for the first time that night and a buzz just reverberated around the room. Bouncing around with arms slung over shoulders, humming the first two verses because they are all too pissed to remember the details of a 2000 chart topper, but the chorus is unmistakable.

 _Looking back on when we first met, I cannot escape and I cannot forget_.

Gareth’s nowhere to be seen but that doesn’t stop them.

_Southgate you’re the one, you still turn me on,_

Belting at the top his lungs, Jordan accidentally spills his beer over Hendo. He just laughs.

_Footballs coming home again._

 

 

The enormity of what they’ve done only really hits Jordan when he’s in bed at 4am, because, yeah quarter finals are a big deal, but it was borderline expected. Not in the same way Brazil or France is, that’s more grounded in reality because of their ridiculous amount of talent. England is different, because although people want to hope, there is an underlying truth is that it will ripped away from them ( _Same old England, nothing at all has changed_ ).

It’s the shootout that does it really, aint it? Because England? Penalties? You wouldn’t wish them together for a million quid. The win, the saves, the calmness: all reassurances that it is different this time, that maybe England won’t disappoint this year.

Even Jordan wasn’t quite sure if it was all gonna change until that moment, was almost convinced that their inherent English nature to fail would shine in the moments when they needed to succeed.

But here they are: victors of a penalty shootout and Jordan feels like he could take on the world and win.

 

 

The thing about England is that they are the perennial strugglers, the disasters and the underachievers, the easy match and easy they so often were. It’s all Jordan’s ever known of them. He’s not quite old enough to really remember Euro 96 and definitely too young for Italia 90, so his relationship with the English National Team was similar to most, and just as complicated.

There was always a patriotism inside of him, that childlike love for England, but there was also indifference. The whole _It doesn’t really matter. It’s England. They’re shite_. Caring, but never enough.

It’s like this: 2006 and your Mum and Dad bellowing at the telly. Same old shit. St George hanging from the front bedroom window so the whole road could see, and it watched in sorrow as Dad stomped off to the pub, not to be seen in hours. Mum in borderline tears, because she’s so _frustrated_ at years and years of disappointment. 3 days before: strutting into school with hand-me-down Nike Air Max on and a cross shaved into the side of his head, wearing Tesco Three Lion shirts at the park after hours. This culture, this shared experience of anger and failure and sorrows, everyone knows. 

 

 

Sweden can’t come quick enough, and by that Jordan means he’s worried that if they wait too long then their luck will run out. It is bound to. The quarter finals. The hurdle that England so often fall flat at. But then again, there have been times when they have never even started the race, so this was almost like a head start.

The quarter _fucking_ finals.

Christ.

 

 

Three Lions. Three Lions. Three Lions. Three Li-

Like the beating of an unhelpful heart. A constant, but not steady.

Three Lions. 

 

 

There’s something about Harry’s firm header, Dele’s drifting one, that says _we aint here to make up the numbers_. It says something about England that had never been said before. Like _Not a joke. Dominant. Strong._

Jordan is aware, on 60 minutes, that it will now be up to him to keep them in sight of the final. Jordan is also aware that he hasn’t kept a clean sheet yet. That would be nice.

 

 

It was nice. Not quite saving a penalty, nowhere near what he imagines scoring is like. But still, nice.

 

 

That night is different. They still celebrate, probably more than any other country would, but it’s almost tame. They are _tired_. Knackered from the weight on the shoulders, from the very frequent matches, from bloody everything. Most of the lads go back to their own rooms, some go to others, but they all stumble into the lifts, drunk on cider (Gareth insisted they didn’t have the strong stuff, fitness reasons he said. The boys grumbled but Jordan saw Jack grin happily as he was handed an innocuous looking bottle.) and exhaustion.

Jordan can’t sleep. He settles into listening to Marcus and Jesse in the next room over. Not that he can hear what they’re actually saying but the gentle hum is comforting and he eventually drifts away.

 

 

Croatia is like a fucking whirlwind of emotions.

Pure joy, football distilled. ( _Trips, winding free kick, jumping up from the floor_.)

Frustration boiling over into anger. ( _Perišić, can barely remember the goal, just the feeling after._ )

Anguish, agony, misery. ( _Mandžukić, slicing Kyle down and poking it past. The floor feeling like the one comforting thing on that pitch._ )

 

 

England are not meant to be great, nor are they meant for gold and trophies and successes. It is not in the foundation of the country.

But Jordan reckons, that maybe, just maybe, it could be different one day.

 

**Author's Note:**

> im still upset about croatia so like, i genuinely couldn’t force meself to write anymore about it , but i love my england boys so like, this is an ode to them
> 
> xx eve
> 
> tumblr: jordpickford


End file.
